Dear Cas, Love Dean
by ambushedbycroats
Summary: This is just Dean rambling to Cas on a napkin because he's drunk and alone. I basically found the font that Supernatural use for their credits, and was messing about on word, when this happened, so... I thought I may as well upload it...


Cas. I'm so sorry. I find myself watching you when you aren't looking. I don't mean to, it's just my gaze can't move away from the smallest details in your appearance. Like when you've just been speaking with one of your siblings. I can tell. I can see it in the slight tension in your jaw, and the hardness in your eyes. Or when you've found out something, and you want to tell us so badly, but you want to obey human social etiquette and allow Sam or I to finish our boring stories about sitting in the motel room all day. How your hair seems to stand slightly more on edge, and you rock on the balls of your feet. Only slightly, though. You'd have to look very closely to notice. And I do. On occasion, very rarely, something will happen that will make you smile. Not a grin, just a small quirk at the sides of your mouth, and I know that something has made you happy, or at least, happier. I live for those times. You can't know what I think. Anyway, you probably wouldn't understand it if you _had_ noticed. You'd just pass it off as another strange thing that us humans do. Like shaking hands. But, maybe, just maybe, you'd understand. You'd realise just how highly I regard you, and just how much I've come to value you. You said once that you were a poor example of an angel. I disagree. To me, you are everything an angel embodies. To quote, you 'raised me from perdition'. And that can't have been easy. I mean, sure, it might not have been herculean, but even if the task is easy, surely no angel would voluntarily go to hell in order to save someone who didn't believe in them. Even when I was moved by Zach into the future. Then, when you had lost all your angel mojo. You were still my beautiful Castiel. With who-knows-how-old stubble, and dressed in, well, hippie clothes. I didn't care. You shone like a million stars. Crap. Now I've gone all chick-flic on your ass. But that's the thing, Cas. This is what you do to me. You turn me from the badass hunter that I've strained to be all my life, into a wreck of a man, writing my feelings on a napkin in a bar. This is the level I've sunk to. And it's your fault. All of it. But I still don't care. I still have the Impala. My Baby. But, I think, if you asked, she would go. I pray to God that day never comes. But if one day you said, "You know what? I think we should have a Honda Civic." I would turn towards my car, smile sadly, and resign myself to keeping her in a garage somewhere, to be taken out on special occasions. I would keep her safe, obviously. Like Dad's vault he never told us about. Only safer, since that one got broken into. I don't know why I started writing this, actually. Sam gave me a pen, and a napkin, and just left me with my beer. It's not like you're ever going to read this, thank the lord, but I guess I feel better. Lighter maybe, like, now that it's written down, I could just keep going, listing things about you that I love like. I miss you. Every day when you're not here, I think about when you will be. And what you'll say, what you'll be wearing, even though you never change; what news you'll bring with you, good or bad. I think Sam notices. I sometimes zone-out, just wondering what you're doing at that precise moment. Not too hard, in case you hear me, but just stray thoughts, hoping you're okay, wishing you well with whatever job you're doing. Hoping you'll come home to me safely. Do you think of me as your home? You're my home. You and Sam. And the Impala, I guess. Maybe that's why I feel so restless when you're not here. Some would say that I didn't have a home, moving from motel to motel. But, you make do with what you've got, right? I'm trying. God knows I'm trying. But, being your friend is so hard. You're completely unaware of yourself. You don't realise what effect you have on people. Even the things that I found annoying at first are just endearing now. The only bad thing that I could think to say about you would be that you're never here. But that's not really your fault, is it? You try to come visit, don't you? Sometimes, I'll have an insanely realistic dream, where you've come home, and you can stay for a while. And often, you'll find out, through Sam or just through your angel powers, about how much I love like you. And you feel the same way. Those dreams are awesome. Until I wake up and realise that you're not here, not knowing about my feelings, and I just… I freeze up. It takes me a few minutes to get out of bed on those mornings. I can't talk about my feelings. I'm sure you know that by now. It's pretty obvious. Even when my Dad died I tried my hardest to get away with emotional silence. That's why you'll never find out, why you'll never know. Because I won't tell anyone. I mean, people might guess something, but I would never be able to say that I loved liked you. And you wouldn't realise anyway. If someone approached you saying I loved liked you, you would think they meant platonically, or you would come and ask me. And I could never… I would shout "Bullshit" to the world. Yet inside… inside I would be curled up, whimpering at having to lie to you. Possibly knock your confidence in my feelings for you. Well no. You probably don't care about how I feel about you. Why would you. I'm just poor, messed up Dean Winchester. The one who was supposed to be the vessel of the great Archangel Michael but chickened out. The one with the dysfunctional childhood and no friends. The one who can't have a family because of his abnormalities. The one the police hunted until he 'died'. Why would anyone care about him? Sam only does because we're related, and Bobby's the same. Everyone else just… I don't know… tolerates me. If that. Most people just give me either an appraising or a judging look. Dean the slut. Dean the manwhore. Dean the fuck-up. Dean, the one nobody knows anything about. Dean who just appears and vanishes on a whim. That Dean. I wonder if you even consider me a friend. Do angels even have friends? I bet Zach didn't. Shit, now I'm really maudlin. I've had to move onto, like, three napkins now. I've finished my beer and ordered a whiskey. I shouldn't really drink much, but now I'm all sad, so there we go. It's your fault. Again. I wish you were here. But, at the same time, I'm glad you aren't. Otherwise you might read this. How embarrassing. No. It's best you stay away from me and my failures. My inability to do things correctly. Really, you shouldn't come near me with a ten foot pole. I should go back to the motel. I don't even _want_ to get laid tonight. I might call out your name, and then what if you turned up. No. I'll settle for good old wanking, thank you very much. How much have I had to drink? Should I call Sam?


End file.
